Hunter's Fatigue
by Port-of-Seas
Summary: Expansion of my drabble "Worn". The job can stretch a man thin, and Dean Winchester has hit his limit. Sick!Dean, Protective!Sam.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. It owns me.

A/N: BEWARE! This story is unedited. You have been warned. Anyway, this was going to be a oneshot based on my E/O Challenge Drabble **"Worn",** but it kind of expanded itself. Expect three parts.

For those of you reading "**Carry On",** don't worry. I'm not stopping it, not even really taking a break. Just had to get this bunny out of my system for a few hours. For those of you who haven't read "**Carry On"**, go read it. Read it now.

Hunter's Fatigue: Part 1

When John came home from a hunt weary, shaking, pale, and cold, Dean was ready for him. Warm blankets replaced the leather coat, mugs of tea or hot cocoa shoved into the older hunter's hands, shots of whiskey finding their way into them when Dean wasn't looking, but the boy knew. He'd learned early on that his dad didn't drink to forget like other men did, and as long as the alchohol helped him to sleep at night, Dean was okay with it.

Afterwards, John would talk to his boys, make up for lost time, ask about school, maybe. Sometimes he would break down in the process, and Dean was always there with a hug and a neverending stream of comfort. "It's okay, dad. It's okay. Me and Sammy are right here and that's all that matters." In those early years, Dean never spoke as much as he did when his dad needed him, and it meant something that he could help.

But there was one night when it wasn't enough. John had come home, had twice as much whiskey as he usually did, but it didn't still the violent shaking of his hands that sent the mug clattering to the ground. No amount of hugs could chase away the tremor that ran through his body, and even though John smiled weakly and told his son that he would be all right, the pale man that fell into the cheap motel bed that night was far from all right. Dean waited silently for him to improve.

The next day, while flipping channels, John all but jumped out of his skin when an old horror movie flashed across the tv screen and he grabbed the remote from his sons, grumbling that Dean wasn't even old enough to watch that nonsense, much less Sammy. John coughed loudly, then sneezed, then trusted the boys to look after themselves ("I don't want you turning on anything scary, Dean, that's an order!") while he took a nap.

The next day, John could barely peel his eyes open, and Dean was content to bring him whatever he needed. By that night, he wasn't eating or drinking anything.

Around midnight, Dean awoke to the unmistakable sounds of his father retching into the toilet bowl.

Dean panicked. He'd already lost mom, and he didn't want to lose dad. He couldn't lose dad.

Trembling, he grabbed the phone and dialed Pastor Jim's number. Jim arrived two hours later, smiling and gentle, assuring Dean that his father would be just fine; and he was.

o-o-o

"Man, I hate witches," Dean groaned "But that guy almost deserved it."

"No arguments there," Sam grumbled as they loaded into the impala. Shawn Decaulp had been a real piece of work. Dated a witch, dumped her, and got back with her only after he'd been married. Then he'd talked said witch into hexing his wife without telling her it was his wife. Thankfully, they'd managed to save her, but when the witch had found out... well, Mr. Decaulp was stuck in the ICU after suffering severe burns. They'd let the witch off the hook this one time, on the promise that she'd swear off magic forever.

Dean wasn't convinced, but after describing a little bit of hell, her promises began to sound a lot more truthful. But wasn't that just the trouble with witches? No one ever really deserved a witch's hex, but you couldn't just go up and kill one for it. After all, most witches were still human, which meant they could still be reached.

They could still be saved.

Dean sighed, easing into his seat before popping the key into the ignition. He's been sore the last few days, and it was hard to tell whether that was the job taking its toll or the fact that a flaming Mr. Decaulp had seen fit to throw him against a coffee table in his panic. Or maybe that haunting back in Massachussetts. That had been one nasty mother, and he hadn't felt quite right since.

"Dean, you want me to drive?"

Dean started and stared at his brother as though he had just grown a second head. Him? Give up the wheel?

"Good one, Sam," he grunted, shifting the gear into 'drive'. "But if we're gonna find out what's going on in that place in Virginia, we can't have you behind the wheel."

"Are you serious?" Sam blurted, his eyes widening as he put on the ever-famous, eternally-annoying, potentially-patented Sam Winchester Bitchface. "You already have another hunt lined up?"

"Yeah, well, don't wanna hang around this place."

He glanced in his rear view mirror as the witch's perfect, tidy house faded into a speck, relieved to turn the street corner and disappear onto a main road.

"Dean, I've been telling you, man," Sam groused. "We need to take a break. Two years ago you were begging to go on a vacation."

_Two years ago I didn't have anything to atone for._

"Come on, Sammy, you don't really want to stop," Dean insisted. "Business is booming right now, and every day there're fewer people people in the business."

"Dean, even businesses have weekends off and a paid vacation."

That was three times in the last ten minutes that Sam had started off a sentence with the word 'Dean'. It meant he was seriously working himself into a tizzy and, really, Dean wasn't in any kind of a mood to put up with it. All he wanted to do was reach Virginia, take a hot shower, and drink enough of the good stuff to chase away the memories so he could catch a few hours of sleep. Sam glowered at the road, crossing his arms like the pouty teenage girl he was, and slumped in his seat. Dean would have sighed in relief if he hadn't been afraid it would set Sam off again.

The rumble of thunder rolled over them, followed shortly by a light shower of rain. Dean grit his teeth and flipped on the wipers, not bothering to slow down. Sam clenched his jaw, but said nothing.

As the city melted past them, Dean's head began to ache, like a tight rubber band had been wrapped around it, but after all that, he couldn't turn the wheel over to Sam. That would be giving in.

Minutes ticked by and, as though the aching limbs and the throbbing head weren't enough on top of the constant exhaustion that followed him wherever he went, a tickle ran through his chest and up his throat. He grimaced and swallowed it, earning a 'look' from Sam.

The tickle writhed in the back of his throat like some sort of worm, and the thought made Dean want to gag. And that quickly, he lost his fragile control and began coughing.

"Dean?" Sam asked, but before he could utter another word, Dean pressed the waiting cassette into the player and cranked the volume up.

"Dean, come on," Sam groaned over the loud wails of AC/DC, but Dean ignored him, focusing on the music. It was easy that way, and after a few minutes Sam gave up, sinking into a sulk as he watched the rain run along the window.

The coughs continued for another hour, and by the time the cassette ran out, Dean thought he might just fall asleep at the wheel. Sam watched him expectantly, lips pursed, brows raised until, at last, Dean pulled over on the side of the road. They switched and, though he wouldn't admit it aloud, he was glad for the chance to relax in the passenger seat, listening to the sound of the rain as it chased away the ache in his bones.

He didn't even feel his eyes as they slipped closed, but he sure felt the knife slicing across his stomach, sure as his name was Dean Winchester, sure as the grass back topside was green, sure as...

Hell.

He tried to scream, but blood filled his mouth and he could only gag and choke as it fell from his lips in a frothy foam. Gasping around the pain in his throat that tore like a thousand shards of glass, he pulled weakly at the hooks that held him in place as Alastair smiled at him, his inhuman face filled with twisted pleasure as he ran another knife, this one blunt and ragged, across Dean's throat. Or, he ran what looked like a knife against what felt like a throat. Everything shifted in a distorted haze, and the only thing that came through loud and bright and clear was the pain, the neverending pain.

Dean gagged, wide eyes searching desperately for something he could cling to, but there wasn't even a shred of comfort to be found in the pit.

"Do you want the pain to stop, Dean?" Alastair crooned. "Or do you maybe like it, just a little bit?"

Another blunt force pummeled into him, digging into his gut, clawing, tearing, ripping until he felt something give, something come out in a wet slap against his legs. In life, those would have been his intestines.

Dean's mind was torn, one half screaming, howling with an agony that could never be soothed, the other dully noting everything that was happening to him. What hurt the most, what took the longest...

"It can all stop, Dean," Alastair reminded him. "All you have to do is pick up the knife."

And, like magic, the glass was gone from Dean's throat. He stared at the shifting, flashing form of Alastair, and he ached for it. He wanted to be there, wanted to stop this.

He opened his mouth, uncertain of just what his answer would be, but all that came out was another fountain of blood and spittle, and he was choking on it again!

"Too bad."

Alastair raised the knife again.

"Gah!" Dean gasped, and the sudden motion set off another round of coughs, more violent than the last. He pressed a fist to his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut as his chest rattled with fluid, something wet dislodging itself from the back of his throat and slapping against his fist. A hand pressed against his shoulder, and he fought his hardest not to flinch away from the touch.

_Sammy, it's Sammy, just Sammy..._

But even as the coughing abated and he opened his eyes, he had to stare for a moment to remind himself that the figure before him was really his brother.

"Here," Sam offered, handing him a napkin leftover from some fast food restaurant. Wearily, Dean accepted it and wiped the mucus (not blood, no, it wasn't blood) off his hand, then he looked around.

They sat in the parking lot of a cheap Mom-and-Pop inn, with only two or three other cars to suggest the place was even populated. The rain had given way to a cloudy, clear evening, the first few stars just peeking between the fluffy gray sheets.

"Sammy, what-"

"I called Bobby," Sam explained. "He found someone to take over the hunt in Virginia. You need to rest."

"No," he groaned, but he didn't have it in him to really protest as Sam left (taking the keys with him) to get them a room. It was all he could do to keep from drifting off to sleep before his brother returned, key in hand. Sam opened the door for him, not daring to help him stand, and tossed him his bag. Dean grunted under the weight. Geez, he didn't remember loading the thing with bricks.

Irritated as he was that Sam had given the job away, he had to admit that it felt good to stumble into the shower of the motel which, thank God and all his angels except the really crappy ones, had hot water and complimentary soaps and shampoos. He nearly passed out right there, under the steady showerhead, except he knew the bed would be much more comfortable.

Wearily, Dean changed into a T-shirt and boxers, relieved that his aches and pains had abated for the duration of the shower. He was determined to reach the bed before they could return.

He stumbled forward a few steps, blinking against the dizziness that assaulted him. Must have taken too hot a shower, now he'd gone and thrown himself off...

He blinked, shaking his head as he wandered to the bed. Sam was still up, clicking away on his computer atop his own bed. Dean made to make some sort of snarky joke about it, but the jibe died on his lips as he fell back against his own bed, heat washing over him in nauseating waves.

"Shower's all yours," he mumbled, pulling himself up into a sitting position and reaching for the remote on the bedside table.

Sam didn't move. When Dean glanced up, his brother was giving him that worried, puppy-dog look. Brows furrowed, eyes widened ever so slightly as he worked his jaw, trying to think of something to say.

"Go on," Dean ordered. "You smell."

Sam hesitated, but when Dean flipped on the television and pretended to focus on the infomercial that came on, the younger Winchester reluctantly closed his laptop and headed into the shower. Dean allowed a shiver to rip through his body and tucked himself under the covers, despite the heat. It didn't help. The shivers continued until Sam returned, after what must have been the shortest shower ever.

"You okay, Dean?" he asked, his hand coming down. Dean deftly dodged the concerned forehead-touch and tried to shake it off.

"Yeah, hush. This is good."

Sam glanced back at the announcer on the screen, brandishing a set of silver cutlery before an awed audience. Dean couldn't have cared less, but he said,

"Bet you could take out some nasty sons of bitches with those things, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, returning to the laptop. Dean sank deeper under the covers, trying to fight the shivers that rattled his sore body. The announcer brandished the knife and, with a flourish, sliced straight through a cooked ham.

Dean's stomach lurched at the sight, his mind running to a thousand times like it, the carving of flesh from bone with neat precision.

Fighting a gag, he changed the channel, landing on some cop show. Gunshots reverberated through the room once, twice, and Dean had to change the channel again.

The Hallmark channel. Couldn't be too bad. Dean stiffened against another shiver, focusing on the screen. Sam's brows shot up into his hairline.

"Dude, seriously?"

"Shut up," Dean grumbled. "This chick's hot."

And safe. Not matter how hard it tried, the true story of Becky's struggles with anorexia couldn't shake him to the core. Unfortunately, neither could it keep him awake.

Admitting defeat, Dean let his eyes slip shut, inwardly flinching at the darkness that waited on the other side. Just before he slipped back into the pit, he thought he felt a a cool, dry hand pressing up against his forehead.

_Sammy. I think I need you right about now._

_o-o-o_

Will pick up next chapter. Tell me what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

A/N: Thank you all SOOO much for reviewing chapter one! And I am so incredibly sorry it took me this long to get to chapter two. Real life has reared its ugly head and, unfortunately, this is the first pure sick/whump/torture fic I have ever written... but we're getting there. One chapter left!

Thank you all again so incredibly much!

o-o-o

Sam had never taken well to being sick. Try as he might to seem big and tough, he was always a bit of a wimp. When they were kids, Dean would all but freak out, setting aside his usual belligerent tendencies and taking care of his baby brother. It was never heartfelt or touching, just expected. With Dad gone so often and Dean left taking care of his (whiney) little brother, it would have been downright weird if he hadn't been the one to help Sammy through the Chickenpox, and the flu, and that nasty stomach virus. Sibling rivalry sort of went on hold when Sam was sick, because for a change Sam was too worn out to fight, and Dean was too worried to pick on him.

After Stanford, Jess, and the whole freaky psychic thing, Dean had worried that he and Sam might never find themselves on common ground again. Sure, they did what they always did. The hunted, they argued (though the arguments were a little more mature, a little less "buttface" and "Meanyhead"), they complained about life, and they went right back to it. But everything was different. At least, until Sam's nightmares and stress and worry finally wore him down.

For three days, Dean shoved chicken noodle soup, crackers, and watered-down gatorade down his throat. He checked Sam's fever, held the trash can for him, and answered the door when the uncomfortably pretty, blonde landlady checked in on her poor, sick tenant, oblivious to the resemblance she bore to said tenant's dead girlfriend.

By the end of the third day, he called Bobby, who diagnosed Sam's malady as 'hunter's fatigue' and, after a few helpful tips (and a lot of biting his tongue), Dean was better prepared to deal with his little brother's sickness. A day later, Sam pulled through, and they were back on the road.

o-o-o

"…Dunno if that'd work, Bobby. I mean, how can I know what will and won't set him off?"

Dean blinked groggily, wincing as the dim room lights stabbed into his brain. Sam paced around the back of the small motel room, his voice pitched soft and low.

"Yeah. Okay, I'll call you if it gets worse… yeah, we have insurance." Sam glanced up at Dean, his eyes widening. "Okay. I'll call you later, Bobby. Bye."

Sam flipped the cell phone shut, shoving it in his pocket as he hurried to Dean's side.

"Hey, Dean," Sam breathed, sitting down on the bed beside his brother. Dean grimaced as the mattress shifted, aged springs squeaking beneath them. Sam smiled weakly. "That bad, huh?"

Dean took a breath, ready to respond, when a sudden pain flared inside his chest. He choked, pressing the heel of his palm against his sternum as he relived the pain of that day in that abandoned old shack, a billion volts of electricity coursing through his chest, the heart attack that had sentenced him to death…

But he had survived to feel it again.

The pain triggered another coughing fit. Dean shot up, hand pressed against his mouth as something rattled deep within his chest, clawing its way up his throat like crushed glass, and boy did he have thirty years experience to know what that felt like. Oh, God…

He gagged, lungs burning as the small motel trash can, hastily lined with a plastic bag, was shoved under his mouth.

"Come on, Dean, just get it out," Sam urged, roughly rubbing Dean's back. As though it would help.

Dean gagged again, his stomach turning as something thick and wet caught in his esophagus, choking him, killing him…

He gagged again and again, hacking until, at last, a wet mouthful of mucus fell into the trash can with an awful 'plop!' and a crinkle of plastic. Dean drew a ragged breath, resting his forehead against the cool, plastic rim of the can.

"Dammit, Dean," Sam sighed, his hand stilling, but never leaving his brother's back. Secretly, Dean was grateful for the contact. "You're pretty sick."

"Naw, I'm-" he gasped, but the rest of his words were lost as his scant supply of air ran out and he struggled to draw in more. Each shaky breath relieved the burning in his lungs, but hit him in the chest like a hammer.

"Yeah, yeah, sure you are," Sam snarked, pressing one hand against Dean's aching chest and helping him to sit upright. Dean hissed, sweat beading on his forehead as he struggled to suck in just one lungful of dry, hot motel air. The sensation wasn't unfamiliar.

Dean choked and bent over the trash can again, each desperate cough ripping through his body, threatening to shatter every bone. Sam rubbed his back, babbling comforting words that were about as effective as a water gun against a house fire.

"Come on, Dean, that's it. Nice and deep."

Dean wanted to tell Sam where he could freaking stick it, but another glob of mucus got in the way. Shuddering, he spat it out in the trash can and collapsed back against the pillows, sucking in what air he could.

Sam pulled the trash can away and glanced into it. Dean didn't miss the dismay on his baby brother's face; the way his cheeks went just a little bit pale, the way his eyes widened just a smidge. It wasn't the way a normal person might have reacted to something, but with a Winchester, it meant something was up.

"S'my?" he rasped. In an instant, the 'look' on Sam's face vanished, replaced by his usual calm, controlled expression.

"Here, Dean. Listen, I know it sucks, but we need to get some food in you."

Sam retreated into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of gatorade and bowl of soup that had probably been warm once. Dean didn't bother trying to raise his leaden arms from the bed to accept the soup. The thought of putting anything in his mouth right now sent his stomach rolling. Sam sat down next to him.

"Hey, Dean, you gotta cut me some slack here," Sam mock whined. "I even went and got the good stuff; Campbells chicken noodle."

Campbells. They all died. Every one of them, dead. Picked off like flies, just like goddamned hunters always died. God... the look on mom's face when she saw him, knew that he knew what she'd done, holding dad's corpse...

"Dean?"

Sam's face mirrored the concern he had seen in Castiel that night all those months, no, all those years ago...

Dean grimaced, glancing at the proffered soup. It looked thick and oily; definitely not something he wanted to put in his mouth at the moment. He wanted to summon some funny thought, something to lighten the situation... but all he could manage was a shake of the head. Sam didn't like that, but he held his tongue.

_You never used to hold your tongue, Sam. What happened? What's going through your head that you can't tell me? You used to tell me so much..._

"At least drink some gatorade," Sam urged, pressing the bottle into Dean's hand.

Dean choked back a groan and pushed himself up, his head spinning. A sudden splash of cool liquid seeped into his jeans, the weight of the bottle gone less than a second later.

"That's okay, Dean, come on. I've got it for you."

Dean blinked, the cozy, old motel room swimming into focus, and there was Sam, pressing a half-empty gatorade bottle against his lips.

"Get off," Dean grunted, swatting the bottle away. Crap, he was out of breath again.

"Dean, you need fluids," Sam insisted, putting on his very best bitchface.

"I... don't need you to..." Dean wheezed, but Sam cut him off.

"Yeah, cause you're so strong you can totally hold the bottle for yourself."

Dean glared, but didn't have the strength to resist as Sam pressed the bottle to his lips again. A sweet, powerful taste exploded in his mouth, too much, too sudden. He held it in his mouth for a moment, trying to psych himself into swallowing it, and grimaced as it went down. Sam tried to press another sip into him, and this time he managed to push the bottle away, shaking his head. He didn't dare open his mouth; more than likely he'd end up puking.

"Okay, Dean, we'll try more later," Sam sighed.

Dean sighed in relief, easing himself back down to the pillows, ignoring the squeak of the springs or the rock-hard pillows. This was enough for now, at least. He shivered, and before he could grab the comforter folded neatly at the foot of the bed, Sam had already draped it over him.

"Hey, Dean. You remember that summer at Pastor Jim's when I was six?"

Oh no. Sam was not using Dean's own method against him. Dean scowled up from under the covers, but Sam wasn't looking at him; his eyes were fixed on the floral wallpaper, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

_He likes this. All our lives, I've taken care of him... he actually likes being the one to take care of me. He shouldn't have to, though._

"You griped the whole time, but man you loved it. Having a place to stay, running around in the fields, trying to catch squirrels. Man, it was so funny that night when Dad came back and found out that you actually managed to catch one. I still can't figure out if he was proud or just shocked that Jim let you keep it in a cage out back. You even named it, what, Binky right?"

_Bucky but I can't expect you to really remember. That was twenty years ago._

"We managed to keep him all of a week before he managed to get out of his cage. Man, you were so pissed. You must have run around looking for him until midnight."

_Yeah, well, that was one cool squirrel. How many kids you know managed to catch a squirrel, Sammy? Catch, not shoot._

Sam smiled and patted Dean's shoulder before returning to his bed, flipping on the television. Gunshots rang throughout the room. Dean's throat tightened, every muscle in his body stiffening, his eyes bugging out. Sam hurried to change the channel, but the damage was done. Dean couldn't get the images out of his head... and it wasn't that all the images came from one thing, one set of memories. There was that moment Sam had fired at Dad, all those terrible times when he'd been forced to take the lives of humans, the rock salt to the chest in that asylum, and of course the strange, distorted sounds of hell that could never be recreated up here, but damned if some sounds didn't just bring them back to focus.

He shuddered, burrowing under the covers and struggling to keep his eyes open. Each time a muscle relaxed, he tensed, his heart pounding, chest throbbing, but he couldn't let his guard down. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't let them back at them, where they'd carve and cut and slice away until there was nothing left, and who would take care of Sammy then?

The seconds ticked by like hours, the minutes like days, the hours like years.

_Just like hell. Each second feels so much longer. Oh, God, please don't send me back. Please. I won't last._

As the alarm clock on the bedside table clicked to 11:00 p.m., Sam glanced over, his usual bitchface in place.

"Dean, you're gonna make yourself more sick that way."

_Shut up, geekboy, you don't get it._

Dean scowled over the covers, but didn't bother saying anything. What was the use? Two words and he'd be out of breath again.

Sam sighed and rolled out of bed, reaching into the duffel and pulling out the first aid kit. Dean watched him warily as he shook out two pills from an all-too-familiar bottle.

"Here," Sam sighed, nudging Dean into a sitting position and pressing the pills into his palm. "Take these, you'll feel better."

Dean grimaced at the sleeping pills and glanced up at Sam with an "Are you serious?" look on his face; one he had practiced well over the last four years.

"Hey, we don't have any Niquil or anything. This is the best we've got for now. Besides, you give me sleeping pills when I'm sleeping."

_Yeah, cause if I don't knock you out you'll keep me up all night long with your coughing and moaning and complaining._

_"_And anyway, I need to get some sleep, and I can't sleep until I know you're sleeping. So do it for me."

_Bitch._

Reluctantly, Dean popped the pills in his mouth and took a loathesome sip of the gatorade to wash them down, gagging at the too-sweet taste of the sports drink.

Sam flopped back onto his bed as Dean retreated once again under the covers and managed to find a rerun of "I Love Lucy", that really good one when the women and the men switched places. Just as the rice from Ricky's attempt at cooking began overflowing from the pot, Dean felt his eyes begin to droop.

_No, please, no!_

He gripped the bedsheet tightly, widening his eyes and holding his breath. He could stay awake just a little longer. He could!

But the room blacked out and, for a time, Dean floated in dreamless slumber.

o-o-o

The problem with sleeping pills was that they weren't designed to keep memories at bay. They put a person to sleep and kept them asleep. Didn't necessarily promise that they wouldn't dream.

Dean shrieked as the hellish blade sliced again and again through his abdomen, carving patterns into his spine, splitting open his spleen and stomach and bladder like water balloons. The knife traced along his ribs from the inside, and if they had been alive and in the real world some of this shit wouldn't even be possible. But this wasn't the 'real world' as he still struggled to think of it. This was hell, and this was the reality of hell.

Screams and wails echoed around him, miles away and inches from his ear, male and female and beast alike, all suffering, all reminding him that there was no hope. No escape.

"Now, Dean," Alastair crooned, carving into Dean's kindeys with the air of a human man preparing a Thanksgiving turkey. "What was it you told me during our last little chat? Something about how I could stick it where the sun shines?"

"Gah!" Dean choked as the knife pierced through his back.

"I don't know why you say things like that, Dean. I don't. Why you're so fond of that dank, cold, empty place I'll never understand."

"P-Pleh..." Dean gurgled, but his ruined body would not permit him to beg. All he could do was endure.

"I'll tell you what," Alastair mused, pulling the bloody blade from Dean's innards and running it lovingly across his shattered, broken collarbone, pausing to tap it where the yellow-white bone poked through the skin. "I'm going to turn you over to someone else, and I'll come back later. See if you change your mind."

o-o-o

Dean choked, barely managing to snatch up the trash can beside the bed before he emptied the meager contents of his stomach. Bile burned his throat, smoke filling his mouth and oh God he was burning, fire licking his skin as he heaved over the can, tears leaking from his eyes that stung and screamed oh God oh God please...

"Dean, Dean, hey!"

A hand pressed down on Dean's back, and he flinched back. But it never did any good. They liked it when he flinched; it excited them.

"Shit, Dean, you're burning up!" Sam hissed, but it couldn't be Sam, could it? Dean had said goodbye to his little brother all those years ago. Knew he was never going to see him again.

The sound of running water rumbled softly in the distance. What was this? It wasn't a sound he was familiar with... maybe they were going to drown him for a while. Might be a nice reprieve to drown for a change. He'd heard that once you let the water in your lungs, it was sort of comfortable. That and freezing to death. That might be nice. He hadn't done that, yet.

"Come on, man," the voice grunted as a pair of strong arms laced themselves under Dean's shoulderblades, hoisting him up. "You gotta try walking with me, Dean, I don't think I can carry you."

Even though Dean knew better, knew the sort of tricks these bastards loved to play, he couldn't help dragging his feet forward. After all, it was Sam's voice. If he could just pretend that it really was Sammy, even just for a moment, he might find the strength to say no to Alastair the next time around.

His clothes were stripped away (_Wait, clothes? No, it had to be an illusion. His clothes had rotted away years ago.) _his boots peeled off, leaving him only in his boxers, shivering suddenly against the chill of room he found himself in. Maybe they'd freeze him and drown him atthe same time. That would be something else.

"Sorry, Dean, but I need to get your temperature down while I call the ambulance," Sam apologized profusely, nudging Dean to step into the water.

Dean hissed the second his feet touched and tried to recoil. He was grateful for the cold, but it was too much too fast. He didn't want to die quickly this time around; wanted to enjoy this gentler death while it lasted. But Sam kept nudging him and urging him so gently that he couldn't refuse, and let the thing that sounded like his little brother ease him into the thing that felt like a bathtub, shivering and sweating as the cool water swept over his broken body.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and, after Comic Con '09, I suspect it's in the right hands.

A/N: Finally, the last chapter! Thanks so much everyone for sticking with me, and I'm so sorry about the super-late update. This was my first straight-up whump fic and, I gotta say, it's been a pleasure!

Now to get to work on that other mountain of fanfiction I've been neglecting.

In response to the beginning bits: They're times others have suffered Hunter's Fatigue and Dean's cared for them. This time I'm putting it in italics.

o-o-o

_Bobby Singer did not 'get sick'. He occasionally felt a little under the weather, but was otherwise healthy as a horse. At least, before his wife died and the occult had become a major part of his life. Then he spent half his time half dead with guilt and fear and frustration damming up inside of him. The feelings gave way to sickness, and the sickness gave way to more guilt._

_Eventually, Bobby diagnosed it as a sort of Post-Traumatic Stress. Not quite a disorder, but the weight of too much responsibility and too many horrible nightmares crowding up inside of the head. Hunter's Fatigue, he'd heard it called. Like Battle Fatigue, but how many war vets flinched at a drop in room temperature?_

_Knowing what it was helped. Didn't make it any more pleasant, but it helped to identify exactly what it was that had him praying to a porcelain god for days on end. _

_After a nasty hunt with a werewolf, Bobby collapsed at home and, for the first time since he'd started the business, someone was there to look after him. Not call to check up on him, not send a 'Get Well Soon' card, but a genuine, caring voice that talked to him, made food when he just couldn't drag himself out of bed, kept him company and helped to chase away the nightmares. It was a fluke, really, that Dean was there at all. His hunt had finished early, and he was just waiting for his dad to meet up with him. At any other time in his life, he probably wouldn't have been so quick to play the role of the mother hen, but Sam heading off to college had sparked something in the boy._

_Bobby didn't much mention it when all was said and done; a gruff "Thanks" and a couple of beers over football was about all they needed. But Bobby couldn't help looking at the boy differently after that._

o-o-o

Dean blinked, eyes widening as he took in his surroundings. Salmon-pink wallpaper shone through the haze. It looked familiar. Like a place he'd stayed once, when he'd been on a job alone. Yeah, he remembered; the blood from that damned fugly wouldn't wash off his hands. He remembered scrubbing until his palms and knuckles were as pink as the wallpaper, unable to wipe its face from his memory. Wasn't it just his luck that it had worn the face of a fourteen year old boy? He knew it was a fake; just an act to throw hunters off. But the only thought that went through his head was "_He was just a boy. Still a kid."_

He'd turned his back on that town pretty quick, just tucked his tail between his legs and hurried back to his dad as fast as he could. So why was he back?

Dean shifted, and became very acutely aware that he was waist high in chilly water, wearing nothing but his rattiest pair of boxers. Shit, what was going on? Dimly, he struggled to remember how exactly he'd come to be in this current situation.

There'd been a witch... and then the hotel room. Sam talking him into taking some sleeping pills; an old Winchester trick for getting a little sleep when your sick father/son/brother wouldn't settle down. Which meant Sam had to be somewhere nearby.

Pushing himself up with shaking arms, Dean tried to peer through the thin crack in the door. There was a flash of movement, the soft murmur of a familiar voice, but that was it.

"Sam?" Dean rasped, gasping as a sudden pain slammed into his chest. He choked, struggling to draw in air even as a sharp discomfort wormed its way up his esophagus.

"Dean?" Sam called. Dean might have responded, might have asked what the hell was happening to him, but the discomfort became unbearable and he dissolved into a violent fit of ragged, breathless coughing.

A warm, dry hand pressed against his back, followed by another on his chest, pushing him up straight as he struggled to hack a lung out. Sam's face swam before him, lips moving, but the only sound Dean heard was a soft ringing growing steadily louder. Black spots swam before his vision, dimming his view of his brother. He gagged, desperately trying to draw in a breath...

But he couldn't. To breathe, you needed lungs.

And Alastair was holding his, playing with them as the blood dripped down his fingers.

"You know, Dean," Alastair crooned, crushing the lung between his fingers. "I remember being just like you, once." He dropped the lung, and Dean choked, blood running down his chin. "I fought and I _screamed, _but for all the pain and anguish I went through, I liked it."

He brought a knife up, toying with Dean's earlobe.

"Even as they tortured me, I couldn't help being fascinated. Oh, I had so many ideas and I couldn't _wait _to get off the rack and try a few out myself."

He pressed the knife into Dean's flesh, digging into the bone of his cheek and dragging it down to his lip. Dean struggled, tried to scream, but fire ate at him from the inside. He heaved, mouth open, straining to breahe or scream or die-

With a sickening lurch, he flew out of the hot, smoggy pit and into a chilly room. Fresh air filled his lungs and he gasped, hands bunching in a thin cotton shirt.

"Hold on, Dean," Sam urged.

And then Dean was falling. He wheezed, burning images of hell flashing through his mind, but he landed not on chains or corpses but the soft comforter covering a motel mattress. Sam wasted no time stuffing his duffel and grabbing Dean's.

A door slammed, and Dean was alone in the room. A clock ticked loudly in the corner, reminding him painfully of each second he came closer to death. Each diminishing moment drawing him closer to the moment when he would screw up again, step on the wrong toes, and buy himself a one-way ticket back to the pit.

He slumped back on the pillows, drawing in shallow gasps of air, his heart throbbing in time with the clock. Smoke crept into the room, covering the musty motel scent. It seeped into his nose, filled his lungs-

"Dean, hey, come on man," Sam urged, shaking his shoulder.

He was pulled to his feet, something thin and warm thrown over his shoulders. He swayed, leaning against Sam as they stumbled out of the motel room and into the muggy, humid air outside. Dean coughed, his chest rattling, but managed to catch his breath. The smoke was clearing for the moment, anyway.

"Almost there, Dean," Sam promised. "Just hang in there, all right?"

Dean blinked, conscious of the car door opening a moment before he was shoved inside.

He slumped against the seat, gasping shallowly for air, clutching the thin blanket even tighter around himself. Sweat rolled down his face, but he shivered nonetheless. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling.

Sam muttered frantically, trying to soothe Dean even as he turned buckled himself in.

The engine roared to life, and a thrill of fear ran up Dean's spine. Noises, gutteral screams and whines and growls, like nothing he'd ever heard in his life before hell. And he'd seen them. God, he'd _seen _the things that made those noises.

"Dean! Shit, man, calm down, you're not getting any air!"

What did it matter? He'd die, and he'd be born again. Like magic. Yeah, cause all magic came from demons and hell, right? Even the things that seemed so good and wonderful were really echoes of evil.

Claws ripped at his torso, digging into the his innards and shredding them. He choked, his airways locking before he could cough up any blood. His bones shook, shattering one by one inside his meat.

"Dean!"

Fire burned through his chest, darkness clouding his mind. And, for the first time, that was all there was. Darkness. No pain, no sounds or lights or smells. It was... nice wasn't quite the way to describe it. No, 'nice' was flirting with a busty waitress, having a beer with Sam or Dad or Bobby. The darkness was... contentment. And he was satisfied to float along, not having to feel anything.

It lasted forever, and then suddenly it was over.

Cold air rushed into his lungs, inflating his chest like a balloon, burning and aching until he thought he would pop. Then, the air rushed out.

Dean scrambled, reached for the darkness again, but another lungful of cold air grounded him in that _place_.

"Does your brother have any allergies to antibiotics?"

Crisp linen pressed against his back, or he lay upon it. Lights blazed above him. Another rush of air filled his lungs.

He wheezed, another set of coughs tearing at his throat.

"My my, Dean, you sure do make a ruckus when I leave those vocal chords in, don't you?" A stab of pain pierced his heart. "Well, let's see what we can do with that."

Smoke whirled around him and he trembled; naked, strung up, held in place by a dozen jagged hooks on the rack. Alastair circled him, baring his ugly maw to reveal what weren't quite teeth, in what wasn't quite a grin.

"Heaven's little helper-boy, are you? What did you ever do to get the big guy's attention?"

He slammed the hilt of a knife into Dean's side. Dean choked, but something filled his mouth, smothering his ability to cry out.

"Don't fight the tube," a firm voice ordered. "It's there to help you."

The hilt of the knife slammed into his side again, this time dredging up blood. Dean let out a strangled yelp, jerking against the hooks, his skin burning in the ashy fires of hell.

Muffled voices reached his ears, swiftly drowned as Alastair laughed.

The hilt hit him a third time, finally breaking through his skin and digging into the muscle beneath it.

"Looks like we finally hit the jackpot!" Alastair crowed, setting the knife aside. Let's see what we have, shall we?"

Dean gasped as Alastair reached into the hold in his side, wriggling his fingers until he found something.

"Let's start with the lungs," Alastair suggested, gripping one tight and ripping it out. Dean choked and gagged, tears running down his face as he tried to scream. Alastair reached in again, this time wrapping his fingers, no, his _claws _around a kidney.

"No screams, Dean? I hope you're not getting bored," he remarked, yanking the kidney out and ripping it in two. "Although we've been playing this game an awful lot lately, haven't we?"

He traced one claw in the crook of Dean's elbow, right along the pale blue lines of his veins. Dean's eyes widened and he tried to jerk away, but Alastair plunged his fingers in, seizing a vein and tearing it out. Dean shrieked around the obstruction in his mouth.

"Shit, get me a sedative!" a voice ordered.

"Dean, please, man, calm down."

"Dean," a new, familiar voice rumbled. "Listen, son, whatever's goin' on in that head of yours, you can beat it. You're stronger than this."

"There's the Dean I know," Alastair said proudly, running his knife through the groove of skin where Dean's vein had once been. "You always had the very best sort of scream. Of course, it must get tiresome after a while."

Alastair dug in with the knife, grinning as Dean cried out, ripping out another vein.

"You could be the best, Dean," he went on. "I see a little of myself in you, and let me tell you, I've had so much fun tearing and ripping."

He stabbed the knife into Dean's bicep, dragging it down. "I mean, we could start now if you like."

_No. No... I do that and I'll become just like him. I'll become one of those things..._

"I'm waiting for an answer, Dean."

Alastair set in on the other arm, and Dean grit his teeth around the thing in his mouth, panting even as it filled his remaining lung with air, keeping him alive so he could feel every cut.

"It feels nice," Alastair promised. "All that pain you're feeling? It just goes away. Leaves you and goes right into them. Gives you a little bit of that power back. Usually takes a person a lot longer to get good at it, but... well, you've been on this rack a lot longer than them. You've got a little more pain to give out, don't you?"

Alastair tossed the knife away, spreading his bloody hands wide.

"What do you say, Dean? Stop all this _nasty, stinking pain_. Give it a go. It'll be fun."

"Come on, Dean, you can fight this!" Sammy's voice echoed through his head.

Alastair bared his ugly maw in a smirk. Tears welled up in Dean's eyes.

_I'm sorry, Sammy. Dad. I'm so sorry._

With a gurgled choke, he dropped his head in a jerky nod. Alastair laughed.

One by one, the jagged hooks ripped through Dean's flesh until, unsupported for the first time in decades, he fell. Ash and smoke and fire flew past him, clogging up his eyes, his ears, his nose until, at last, he landed in a broken heap atop a writhing mass of hopeless corpses. Each one stared at him, their eyes glassy, their faces torn into something barely human.

"They didn't get the special treatment you did, Dean," Alastair explained. "So we let them lay there until we need a little practice. Get up, Dean."

Trembling, Dean pushed himself up, his legs unsteady upon the mound of flesh. His body was whole again, and he could clearly see Alastair holding out what looked like an ice pick.

"Go ahead, Dean," he encouraged. "Take it."

Dean swallowed back bile and took the pick in his hand. Through the smog, a figure materialized, bound by the same jagged hooks that had held Dean captive for thirty years.

"Put it right through his belly button," Alastair instructed. "Go on. You know how it's done."

Hands shaking, Dean eased closer to the figure, clutching the ice pick in one white-knuckled fist. It all seemed so different now. Insignificant, really. Just a few pokes, a few prods. Enough to get this man screaming, and maybe the pain would really go away.

"You can fight it, Dean."

"We're here, man, you gotta pull through this."

"Come on back to us, son."

"Don't do this, Dean."

The words filtered through the smoke, familiar voices from God knew where. Dean blinked, his vision swimming.

The man in the hooks groaned and lifted his head.

"Dean," John Winchester moaned, his eyes wide and full of tears. "Don't do this. Don't become one of them."

Dean't heart throbbed.

_Oh God._

_No._

_Dad._

_He can't see..._

_No!_

Something snapped inside of him. Why was he still cowering with fear? It wasn't like he was on that rack anymore. He was whole, standing on his own two feet, weapon in hand.

He had some of his old power back, and he'd be damned if he was going to let it go.

With a yell, he whirled around and plunged the pick into Alastair's chest, eyes blazing. Alastair growled, throwing him back against the mound of corpses.

"Looks like I need to teach you a few more lessons, Dean," the demon hissed.

The corpses wailed, reaching out and grabbing him, pinning him in place. Alastair dragged the ice pick from his chest, hissing and spitting like a snake as he raised the pick above his head.

Dean strained against the corpses and managed to free his legs, kicking out at Alastair with all his might. It wasn't much, but the demon stumbled.

Awed, the corpses released him and Dean stumbled to his feet.

"You can stick it where the sun shines, assface!" Dean roared, swinging out at Alastair. "Because I will _never _become a filthy thing like you!"

Alastair staggered back and, before he could get his bearings, Dean was on him like a madman. For every cut Alastair had given him, he returned a punch. For every snide comment, every promise to end the pain, every laugh at another man's misery, Dean laid in on his face.

Alastair shrieked and writhed beneath him but, as the beating continued, his struggles weakened. At last, the demon went limp beneath his hands. He wasn't dead; you couldn't die once you were in hell. But he sure was going to be out of the picture for a while.

Dean grunted and clambered to his feet.

"Hope that was fun for you," he spat. Spots danced before his vision and he swayed on his feet before blacking out at last.

o-o-o

He hated hospitals, if for no reason other than the incessant beep of the heart monitor. He was usually in bad enough shape to need one, and the beep itself was a good thing, but damned if it didn't rob him of what little sleep he managed to achieve.

Dean blinked the room coming into sharp focus, and tried to take a deep breath. But he couldn't. Something was blocking his throat.

Panic gripped his chest and he coughed, trying to get it out.

"Dean, Dean! Hey, don't fight the ventilator," Sam ordered, slamming one hand on the call button while the other gripped Dean's shoulder. "Come on, man, calm down. You're safe."

Before Dean could decide for himself just how safe he was, a curly haired nurse hurried into the room.

"Finally," she remarked, taking his hand. "You gave your family quite a scare. Now, I just need you to relax while I get that tube out of you, okay?"

She beamed down at him, and Dean couldn't help doing as she said. Sam gripped his arm as she did her nursely things, dragging the tube out of his throat (and he damn near thought he was gonna throw up, but apparently there wasn't anything in his stomach to throw up) and slipping a breathing cannula under his nose.

"There you go, Mr. Hayes," she said cheerfully. "Now you just take it easy, and let me know if you need anything, okay?"

_Well, I could use your number._

But Dean only smiled and nodded as she left the room. Sam gave him an incredulous look.

"Dude," he bitched. "You've been conscious for, like, five minutes and you're already trying to pick up chicks?"

"What c'n I say?" Dean rasped. "She's a r'l pearl, that'n."

"I take it that means someone's feeling better, huh?"

Dean smirked, relaxing into his pillow. At that moment, Bobby appeared in the doorway, a cup of coffee clutched in each hand.

"Jesus Christ, Dean," he cried, slamming the cups down on the bedside table. "Took you long enough!"

Dean shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

"Just had s'm business to take care of down under," he slurred. "Nothin' big."

"My foot," Bobby grumbled, but he smiled anyway "Glad to see you back among the living."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean sighed.

The other hunters settled into their chairs. Sam flipped on the television, managing to find a marathon of "The Cosby Show". Two episodes in, and right before one of Bill's punchlines, something popped into Dean's head.

"Hey Sammy?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"When you threw me in the tub... didn't you say you were gonna call an ambulance."

"Uh... yeah?"

"So why didn't you?"

Sam shrugged.

"You were pretty bad off," he explained. "I had to act fast. We didn't have time to wait."

"Yeah? And what if I went into respiratory distress right there in the car, huh?"

"I'd have had it covered."

"You sure?" Dean pushed. "Cause from what I gather I was pretty touch-and-go, even with your so-called 'care'."

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. He rolled his eyes and slumped back in his chair.

"Jerk," he muttered.

"Bitch." Dean smirked.

"Idjits," Bobby mumbled, grabbing the remote and turning the volume up.

Dean drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face. For the first time in a long time, he knew his dreams would hold nothing to fear.

o-o-o

End.

Thank you all so much!


End file.
